


Lorem Ipsum (full of sound and fury)

by nebulein



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Character Study, Gen, Minor Violence, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-21
Updated: 2007-04-21
Packaged: 2017-10-23 20:44:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/254799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nebulein/pseuds/nebulein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean wants to punch the world in the face. It’s not fair. It’s not true. That’s not the way it goes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lorem Ipsum (full of sound and fury)

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the title stolen from Macbeth. Don’t own nothing, I’m just playing. My thanks go to candygramme, who patiently cleaned up my language, to nairie for her invaluable advice on the whole story and to salixbabylon for helping me brainstorm. All mistakes left are my own.

  


At first, the world drowns in silence. Dean can distantly feel his legs giving out from under him, but there’s no pain flaring up in his body as he hits the ground. There is nothing but this gaping wide hole in his chest, swallowing every feeling and thought, until his body is an empty shell and his mind blank. The same scene repeats itself before his eyes in an endless loop. Dean is forced to be a bystander, onlooker as his head tortures him with the same images again and again and again. He’s left watching until he finally blacks out.

When the realization of what happened finally overpowers Dean, it nearly rips him apart. He doesn’t even make it to the toilet before he throws up. It’s nasty and disgusting, even more so in the stark bathroom light. Cold sweat breaks out all over his body as he stumbles into the tiny room. He sinks down on the floor, tries to concentrate on his breathing. The cold porcelain of the bathtub rim under his cheek barely registers. His whole body starts shaking as wave after wave of nausea hits him, making his stomach convulse violently. The sick feeling in his gut doesn’t go away, even after the only things that’ll come up anymore are bile and stomach acid. Dean spits and closes his eyes. The tears won’t come.

 _It’s not fair. It’s not true. That’s not the way it goes._

He cracks.

Dean wants to punch the world in the face. He yells at God, at everybody, yells in some empty woods in Minnesota until his voice falters and his throat constricts. He smashes the motel chair, a window in an empty warehouse, smashes in the face of some werewolf. It’s never enough. Nothing manages to smother the anger that’s boiling inside Dean, consuming him, itching under his skin, nagging in his skull, until he can’t think of anything else, feel anything but this blind, burning RAGE.

Bar fights, hunts, arguments. He fights whenever he can. In Arizona he’s stabbed in a drunken brawl and only gets saved by the cops. In Washington a vampire comes damn close to ripping Dean’s head off, before Dean does the same to the vamp. He’s on his own personal crusade, finally fighting back after enduring everything the world threw at him for over twenty-seven years. In Utah he feels more than one bone cracking under his boot and fists before someone knocks him unconscious. He wakes up with a deep cut under one eye, a dislocated shoulder and a twisted ankle. His clothes are torn and stained with blood. Not all of it is his.

When the skin of his knuckles doesn’t even begin to scab over, and he can hold neither a shotgun nor his own dick to take a leak anymore, he drives. Endless miles of road put behind him, in a wild zigzag course, whichever direction, crossing at least one state line a day. He never realizes that in this whole odyssey, there’s one state he won’t visit. The radio is blaring constantly, filling the car with everything from pop-shit to jazz. He switches stations until he finds one with no talking at all, only music, whatever music, any music as long as it drowns out the silence.

He cracks, but he won’t break down.

He quenches the fire in his gut with alcohol; fucks every girl willing to hold still long enough. After seven glasses they all look the same, but nothing lets him get rid of that stale taste in his mouth afterwards. Their faces start to blur together in his memory. He won’t look at his own in a mirror anymore.

The rooms he sleeps in are sold by the hour. No point in wasting scarce money. He pays for four and is out of there before his time is up. He’s lost his appetite for anything but cigarettes, but he stops at a diner whenever he remembers to eat. More often than not he forgets.

 

When he stumbles into the Roadhouse, the sight he presents ain’t pretty. He’s beaten up and burnt out. There are bags the size of Montana under his eyes. He hasn’t slept in three days, hasn’t showered for far longer. Half his face has disappeared under a patchy, unkempt beard.

Ellen sits down at his table with a bottle of whiskey.

A trailer. Out of fucking nowhere. Full on hit him. Sent him flying. Smashed the window. Headfirst. Baths & Beyond. Internal bleeding. Lasting damage. Never woke up. Nothing, there was nothing. Nothing I could do.

His voice falters. He downs his glass, swallows audibly. The silence stretches, just a moment. Then he looks up at her. She’s never seen such empty eyes. He nearly chokes on his last word, winces.

Sam.


End file.
